


Embrace

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not yes. John doesn’t say ‘yes’ unless he’s forcing himself to attention, to rules and lessons of propriety hard won. Rodney likes ‘yeah’ better, anyway, the way it drops fuzzy and barely audible each and every time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Embrace

The cuffs are plain metal, the kind used for restraining criminals and those deemed untrustworthy—John doesn’t care. The careful bite of cold, hard-edged metal into his wrist sends sparks of heat up his arms and down low across his belly. His thighs are trembling, and not because he’s got all his weight centered on his knees.

He’s waiting. He’s been waiting a while, naked and lonely while life whisks past him, conversations moving slip-stream fast beyond the door, rising and falling in unpredictable patterns. He’ll keep waiting.

Getting undressed was the hardest. Stripping off for bed or under the watchful eye of an appreciative lover, that’s different. For the first, his body is as immaterial as the room around him, simply one more obstacle to overcome before falling into bed. For the second, though, always, always that starts up the tight spiral of want in his belly, the fire that makes him fumble buttons he normally brushes by with competent forgetfulness.

This time, though, there was no lover to caress the lines of his body with focused attention alone, no one to beg him to hurry up, dammit, please get it all off already, _hurry_. This time, John was aware of each angle of the room, the frozen images on glossy paper, unmoving eyes catching each jerky movement of John’s, unapproachable and distant, judging behind the dazzle of refracted light.

He can feel all of them watching, waiting along with him, smiling or glaring, trapped inside scenery that looks plastic and wrong—too bright, or too dark, too much, stop _looking_ —against the organic gleam of Atlantis’ walls.

John closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe, to relax, to keep the steady beat of his heart from pounding right through rib-cage and skin, because he is going to wait, still and ready and wanting, god, so _wanting_ until the door opens.

And then there’ll only be one pair of eyes on him.

* * *

He’s so completely not ready for it that Rodney can feel the way the gear shift _yanks_ inside his head, insides stripped raw with a screech he really hopes he didn’t vocalize.

It’s been a very, very long day—long couple of days, really, although it’s Atlantis so it’s not like they’re ever _short_ or _uneventful_ —and the possibility that this is a hallucination is, unfortunately, highly probable. Rodney’s pretty sure he’s never had a hallucination not brought on by robots that could think and torture for themselves, but he’s learned that there is a first time for everything and this is definitely a first time for _something_ , even if it’s not a hallucination.

He actually hopes it’s _not_ a hallucination, because his insides feel tight and oh, whoa is his throat dry, in the best of ways. “I wasn’t expecting anything from the _Deadelus_ ,” he says. Each new run is like Christmas in whatever month it happens to be, smiling faces and disappointed black scowls doled out in equal measure as the USAF checks its list twice and invariably deems a hell of a lot more naughty than nice. Still, fresh frozen-fruit is a treat everyone can share, and disappointment is normally short lived, the random good cheer springing up and down the halls forcing even the Scroogiest of Scrooges to lighten up for a few days.

There’s no response, but Rodney doesn’t expect one. If this plays out the way he thinks it will—please, please, he’s so ready to beg, _please_ —then there won’t be an answer nor any other kind of words. Maybe not even vocalizations; Rodney frowns, striding forward because hey, he kind of really likes noise and the fact that it’s withheld as often as it is drives him crazy.

Crazy enough that for once, he doesn’t think—no plotting, no planning, no thoughts moving faster than even an Asgard super-computer, plotting out action and potential response before a single nerve is twitched into motion. He just _goes_ , snaking his hand—blunt, broad fingers that look rough and inelegant against muscle and skin Michelangelo would’ve praised the heavens for—down between thighs that are surprisingly free of soft, dark hair, and cups over heat and hardness, rubbing and touching until the initial jerk of surprise fades away, muscles turned liquid and pliant as Rodney moves, playing, until suddenly he’s really not.

John goes rigid, shoulders back—but his head stays down, eyes and face hidden like he needs the additional protection. Maybe he does; his masks may be light as the finest silk veils, almost imperceptible, but layer is built upon layer, opaque enough to seem solid, and it takes effort to part the fluttering edges.

Rodney lets his hand go lax, rubbing softly over skin dyed red, enjoying as John shudders through a different kind of tremor. “You remembered,” he says, pleased. It’s not often they trade fantasies, too busy and too old for that kind of adolescent bonding.

Or maybe it’s just Rodney who is, because John can often show a single-minded determination when there’s information he wants, an idea he’ll relentlessly pursue. He would make a good scientist, Rodney thinks, not for the first time, although it’s not the bull-headed aggressiveness that Rodney’s come to expect from his peers that John uses. John slips sideways, a snake leaving imperceptible prints on dimpled sand, meandering ever closer to a goal Rodney never sees, even as he lays in bed, pleasure-drunk and mostly asleep, answering John’s lazy questions with words equally lazy and unfocused.

John doesn’t nod, doesn’t respond in any way except to lock his hips to stillness—like if he doesn’t, he’ll have to thrust, have to rub up against the hand Rodney leaves warm and rough, almost hard, pressed up against his cock.

The fantasy is one that Rodney rarely vocalizes: a simple cure for boredom during one of the meetings they’re all forced to endure, the price of management and an entire galaxy of toys to play with. He’d reach over, hidden under the table, to find the v of John’s legs, always left open like he needs to show the world that it’s not the way his spine always curves or the dry, dry sarcasm that lays under each of his words that people should truly pay attention to. In this meeting, John won’t react, won’t even so much as jerk the way he almost always does, first time he’s touched. He’ll just sit there, quiet and attentive as he tips sideways in his chair, body loosely open as Rodney starts to touch him: over and over, allowing the rough scrape of John’s pants to add a new twist to the friction, encouraging John to harden full and hot against the press of rayon and Rodney’s careful manipulations. Maybe he’ll take John out, stroke him off with the air cools around both their skin, forcing John to reach that utter stillness that makes Rodney frantic with lust, stupid with it, because he knows what it means, _craves_ what it means, and wants it every moment of every day.

Fuck it; he is an adolescent.

Beneath his touch, John is hardly breathing he’s so quiet, the steady beat of his blood, rushing hard and fast close to his skin, the only sign he’s still alive, still _there_ , to enjoy the way his cock is stroked and tugged, Rodney’s hand growing slicker every time he swipes a thumb over the delicate smoothness of the head.

“Did you remember?” he asks, the snap of command sending a shudder down John’s spine. Rodney can see all of it, the way the muscles bunch and contract, skin rippling over top. Rodney has a lot of fantasies, and there'd been several he remembered sharing; several that John had listened to without breathing.

“Yeah.”

Not yes. John doesn’t say ‘yes’ unless he’s forcing himself to attention, to rules and lessons of propriety hard won. Rodney likes ‘yeah’ better, anyway, the way it drops fuzzy and barely audible each and every time.

Abandoning his cock, Rodney traces delicate helices over the skin directly behind John’s balls, amused at the way they swing, tightening with each new pattern. John is incredibly sensitive there, one of the few places he is that sensitive; Rodney grinds his wrist independently of his fingers, just to watch John jerk and tense like he’s been pulled up taut on strings.

“Just call me Gepeto,” he murmurs, flushed and happy. His fingers touch slick, body warmed to smoothness, and the butterfly wings he always feels, always when John’s like this, beat hard enough that there have to be hurricanes crashing wet and raw throughout Rodney’s body, blood speeding storms this way and that as he understands all over again that John never thinks he has enough to give, never understands the gifts he can offer, and always retreats to this one, this only prize he thinks he has to preserve.

He’s wrong, of course, but Rodney doesn’t need to tell him that. He _does_ call John a great big girl, which John never accepts with the irony it's delivered.

Sometimes, it makes Rodney want to hit him—how a confident, intelligent man can be so ludicrously _stupid_ , ignorant to the point of retardation, boggles his mind each time he’s presented with new examples of it. But Rodney’s long known how to turn physical rage into mental fortitude, adrenaline channeled into other paths.

Well, most of the time, he does. Ronon lessons are painfully slow, as well as intensely _painful_ , and almost Rodney can see the bright red print—solid mass with five long tendrils leaking past it—he’ll leave if he relents just a little.

Doesn’t; that way is for the weak, for the other ones.

Rodney isn’t weak, isn’t part of any kind of crowd in any planet in two galaxies. He’s made sure of that.

Leaning down, Rodney goes counter to all the things he knows John’s thinking, his mind racing with the action-reaction that Rodney’s stopped caring about, and kisses him. It’s not the kind of kiss that says _clothes off, now, off off off_ —it’s slower, sultry for all there’s no use of tongue, just a frictionless rub of lips against lips that John’s called _soulful_ in a moment of rare poetry, the throb in his voice something Rodney dreams of.

John tries to deepen the kisses, heat them speed them send them spiraling into the death-drop he craves; Rodney refuses. The pace is meandering, careless for all Rodney’s being so, so careful, timing it perfectly as he waits through John’s rushrushrush, finding the sweetness underneath, the yielding release that tastes like salted cherries as Rodney coaxes him through kiss after kiss, their breathing wet and matched.

The angle is wrong for what Rodney wants, but ingenuity is one of his gifts. He strips and climbs on the bed, kneeling before John so they can go back to kissing, to sour-sweet brilliance that leaves Rodney achingly hot and ready as he slides his cock underneath John’s balls, against the slick that his own body thickens, spreading as John automatically tightens, trembling and lurching as he closes until the pressure is perfect.

Rodney kisses with his eyes open. He always has, really, but it’s the most useful skill he has when it comes to John and he cherishes it: John lets everything go when he kisses, the darkness pushed to the edges as he loses himself in each rhythmic breath, each press and release, tongue curling the way Rodney taught him. His body is bent back at an awkward angle, cuffed hands clinging against the headboard so that he’s a slash of tan skin, dusted with dark hair and darker sweat, culminating in his head pressed tight against the wall, bearing Rodney’s weight as they kiss and rock, his cock trapped between their bellies, slow and slower, slowest still.

John hates slow. He craves speed, the rush of adrenaline his baseline, and Rodney delights in denying him. John’s slowly gotten used to it and doesn’t moan, sharp and broken the way he always does, a whined, wordless complaint, just rolls his hips and rides along the heat of Rodney’s cock, over and over until he's _wet_ between his thighs, lube and sweat and dragged smears of precome, skin closing tighter and tighter. He’s still kissing Rodney despite a neck that has to ache, breathing hard against his face to cool the sweat that slides down, soft grunts and high, almost fragile noises that aren't a whine, aren't a moan, but something else beside. He's kissing like he doesn’t need Rodney’s cock is pressing hot and insistent between his thighs, like he doesn’t know his own is caught between two bellies slick with sweat, the pressure tight enough that it’s potentially painful.

And _that’s_ what Rodney wants. 

They kiss until Rodney’s lightheaded, pulling in great whooshes of air through his nose and not caring how gross it sounds. He doesn’t hear it, doesn’t know anything but the way John arches and twists against him, kissing like his life depends on it while Rodney drives in again and again, tongue and cock, taking all of what John thinks he’s giving and the deeper gift buried inside.

Rodney wants to say: _yeah_ and _c’mon, come on, that’s it, more_. He wants to dig his nails into John’s hips and buttocks instead of caressing them, rubbing them when he doesn’t need to reestablish his balance, leaving smudges of blue-black when he does. He wants to say: _come, god, I love it when you come, you look like you’re in_ orbit.

All of that will come through in the kiss, or it won’t. John will understand, or he won’t. Rodney doesn’t know which, and doesn’t honestly mind. So long as he has the time to repeat the lessons, over and over, he’ll continue with this one block-headed student, more patient than any of his former pupils could fathom.

It’s unexpected when John suddenly hisses, biting Rodney’s lip desperately as he bucks, tight and needy, heat splashing wet between their bodies. “Oh, god yes,” Rodney says, or mumbles, or tries to say into John’s mouth, grinding fast and fierce, finally taking what John’s been offering since the moment he walked in to find him bound and restrained, open and willing despite not being open at all. That’s Rodney’s to crack, to tease into being, and now that he has it’s like _he’s_ flying, weightless and airborne as he orbits the body he’s curled around, the body he’s fucking, fucking, and fucking until he splatters John’s skin, the wall, probably his own god damned pillow and doesn’t care one bit.

He sags, only belatedly remembering that John can’t be comfortable and twists off of him. That provokes a noise, hesitant and swallowed, and Rodney has to turn his face into a pillow to hide the smile. God, he loves John’s noises, rare and precious things that they are, each of them cataloged on Rodney’s own personal endangered list.

“Where’s the key?” he asks, surprised at the roughness in his voice.

“Table,” John creaks back, beating him easily with a voice that’s been pared down to nothing at all.

John is going to hurt like hell in the morning, shoulders swinging stiffly as his arms are released, wrists bearing red bracelets neatly coverable by his arm bands, knees rubbed raw enough that they probably hurt _now_ —but John doesn’t seem to care, or even notice how annoying the morning is going to be. He flips the pillow over with a careless hand, pulling Rodney down so he can bury his face in the crook of Rodney’s neck, stinking of sweat and sex and desire so bright it burns through the rest, mint-sharp and spicy, like cardamom.

Rodney isn’t one for cuddling and usually doesn’t like being touched at all after sex. Normally, John isn’t all that different; but when he clings like a barnacle, twenty hands all held with that peculiar looseness that doesn’t mean _loose_ at all, Rodney closes his eyes and breathes slow and deep, rubbing circles over each bump of John’s spine, the mole low on his back, and lets every muscle in his body turn to putty.

“Knew I could get you to relax,” John whispers, like that’s been his goal from the very first moment.

Rodney smiles in his hair, rolling his eyes because it’s expected of him, and _really_ he’s not stupid, palm flat and still in the very center of John’s back.


End file.
